


What's the Risk?

by OllyJay



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-30 12:48:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12109074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllyJay/pseuds/OllyJay
Summary: "Are you sure you want to risk it?""What's the risk?"





	1. The Power of the Written Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221_A_brina](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=221_A_brina).



> ❤️❤️❤️ _Happy birthday to you.. happy birthday to you... happy birthday dear, sweet, lovely 221A_brina. Happy birthday to you._ ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> PS solitary_cyclist wasn't around to check my writing so you may need to squint a bit at the grammar and spelling LOL

_Singapore - September 1929_  
The Honourable Phryne Fisher was a flash of crimson red amongst a sea of glittering black; catching eyes and hearts as she danced her way through the ballroom of Raffles with one handsome man after another. She knew no one and, with no interest in local dramas, she had only herself to please; which was working out well as the quality of her partners was immensely satisfying. Around the edges of the dance women stared coldly at the interloper as their erstwhile lovers dashed themselves at her feet. Rumour said in a couple of days she was flying on to Thailand - from where they were standing it was shaping up to be a long few days.

*****

Jack, looking his normal immaculate self in a three piece suit, close shaven and with not a hair out of place; pushed the pin into the map on his wall, measured out a length of thread and tied it carefully between the last two points, using scissors to snip off the excess. He stood back to admire his work. Five pins. Melbourne, Darwin, Timor, Java and now, Singapore. He reached for his glass of whiskey, taking the time to savour it. Mr Butler had presented him with the bottle when he had called at Wardlow that first evening to check everything was alright. She had left it for him. There had been a note too. He reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet, opening it to find the folded paper. Bringing it to his nose he inhaled the scent that lingered still, or perhaps it lingered only in his mind. He gently unfolded it, wondering if he should put on white cotton gloves. Chuckling at his foolish notion he stared at the five words he had read more times than he cared to count.

_‘Come after me, Jack Robinson.’_

At first he’d been confused, how had she managed to get a note back so quickly? But, when questioned, Mr Butler was adamant she had written the note just before she stepped out the door for the airfield. His instructions were to hand it, and a bottle of her best whiskey, to the Inspector when he turned up. He had thanked the man, placed the note in his wallet as though he was in the habit of receiving romantic overtures from women on a regular basis, and continued his visit as planned. Only when he got back in his car did he let himself consider the implications.

It had surprised him to find her words had been more than a reaction to his last minute appearance at the airfield. She had thought of him in the quiet of that early morning. She had thought of him. Of them. He placed the open note on his desk picking up his wallet to remove the four telegrams he had received. Each contained the same message – nothing more, nothing less. Her feelings for him, as always, made clear not by what was said but the actions that accompanied the words.

_‘Come after me, Jack Robinson.’_

It was a ridiculous notion that he would throw everything up in the air on a romantic whim. For all her alluring qualities - and he was very careful not to start a list of these - it was foolish to think he would follow her. Risking all he had for what, more than likely, would turn out to be a wild goose chase. He removed the final piece of paper from his wallet, shaking his head in disbelief as he stared at the ticket. He had purchased it the same day they had said goodbye at the airfield, worried if he left it too long he would talk himself out of it.

He looked back at the map, he really ought to take it off the wall – roll it up and put it in the box with his trophies and certificates. He stood, put on his coat and hat, picked up the box. A quick glance at the door where his name had been scraped off ready for the next occupant – what the hell, let him sort it out. Hugh shuffled to attention as the Inspector switched off the light to his room and shut the door. “Good night, sir,” he said. Jack nodded, “Give my best to Mrs Collins.” As he reached the station door he thought he heard Collins say ‘…and good luck.’ But it was probably just his own inner voice.

Swinging the door open, he stepped out into the dark.


	2. The Power of the Unspoken Word

_London - October 1929_  
The Honourable Phryne Fisher, a vision in white, was guest of honour at a gala held in the new ballroom at Claridges. She had been in England for nearly a month and, as female pilots were very much in vogue, had become an instant celebrity. Feted by the media for her adventurous exploits and in demand at all the fashionable events - never had she enjoyed London more. She scanned the room, her eyes resting on a handsome waiter tasked with keeping the champagne flowing. Smiling, he approached and refilled her glass. Her lunch companion, unhappy to find he had competition, frowned at the overly familiar behaviour. She thanked the waiter, giving him a mischievous grin of her own and wondered if there would be dancing later.

*****

Jack gazed down at the Tilbury dock from the covered promenade. He had somehow forgotten how cold and miserable England could be. Pushing his fedora firmly down on his head, he buttoned his overcoat right to the top and tightened the Abbotsford scarf around his neck. It had been this time of the year in 1918 that he had arrived in Folkestone on a ship crammed with troops from the Dominions. At first there had been excitement, it was a chance to see the old country where so many of the men had been born but as days turned to months with no indication of when they would be heading home, frustration set in. Christmas had come and gone before he had been repatriated. After endless days at sea he remembered the cheer that had risen spontaneously from world weary souls when they finally reached land. He had sworn then that he would never leave Australia again. Yet here he was.  
  
_“Come after me, Jack Robinson.”_  
  
Picking up his case he joined the queue to disembark. He had debated sending his arrival details and finally decided their relationship was not ready for the expectations this inferred. Instead, he would track her down, presenting himself as an option so he would be sure he was a choice not an obligation. Still, he couldn't help searching for her in the waiting crowd below. As he made the long, slow jostling journey down the gangway to the ground more memories came flooding back and his eyes searched the dock again but this time, lost in the past, it was for a very different woman.

He recalled how he had felt nothing when she had thrown herself in his arms weeping with happiness. He assumed the feeling would pass. It didn't. Instead, for years he acted the part of a loving husband, apparently fooling no one but himself. One day she had told him she deserved more and, with the first real emotion he had felt in years, he had watched as the last link to the man he had been disappeared. It had been a relief, giving him the opportunity to discover who he had become and, in the end, he rather liked what he found.  
  
_“Come after me, Jack Robinson”_  
  
As he neared the bottom of the ramp his eyes were drawn to a stylish couple caught in a close embrace; her head was on his chest, his rested against her hair, their arms clasped tight around each other, eyes closed. Her case and hat lay forgotten on the wet ground where they had dropped. By tacit agreement the crowd flowed around leaving them undisturbed. He watched a passing woman bend to retrieve the dislodged hat, pressing it into a delicate hand before the crush of the crowd moved her on. He silently wished them well. The rain continued to fall.

Beyond the reunited lovers the crowd dispersed quickly. A hand in a white glove magically appeared around his upper arm and she fell into step beside him. He glanced down, spotting her impractical white shoes, now covered in muck. “Will those clean up?” he asked. She chuckled, “I imagine so, and if not, it’s a small price to pay.” He considered that before making a noise of disbelief, “I don’t believe anything you have came at a small price.” Her fingers tightened around his arm, “No, you’re right. Some things came at such a high price I still think I'm dreaming." He raised his eyebrows. She laughed, letting her head rest briefly against his shoulder, “Honestly, whilst I appreciate your concern for my wardrobe, Jack - it’s lucky I understand actions speak louder than words.” Straightening, she glanced out of the corner of her eye at him.  
  
“Come on," she said, "let’s get out of this rain.”


End file.
